


might as well fall

by middlecyclone



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Demons, Dubious Consent, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: “I don’t trust this house,” Ryan says. “Something is really, really wrong here.”





	might as well fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/gifts).



> I really wanted to write a horror story for this fandom, and your likes and prompts really led me down the path of exactly the kind of horror story I wanted to write. I had such a great time working on this treat! Thank you for the inspiration, and happy Yuletide!
> 
> See end notes for some content warnings.

“This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we’re investigating the Wilhelm house, as part of our ongoing investigation into the question, ‘are ghosts real?’”

Ryan’s voice is crisp, the words practiced and careful, and his hands aren’t even shaking this time. Shane, sitting next to him, just shakes his head.

“Now this case is especially exciting,” Ryan continues, “because this house isn’t _just_ one of the most haunted places in America. It’s not _just_ , as the home of one of the most famous mediums of all time, the location of dozens of séances during the 19th century. It’s not even _just_ the site of a tragic accident in 1882 that left a sixteen year old girl dead. No, in addition to all that, the Wilhelm house, “ he pauses for dramatic effect, “is our AirBnb.”

“And let me tell you,” Shane tells the camera drily, “I’m _so_ excited to spend the next three nights with Ryan actively hunting ghosts in the place where I’m sleeping. I’m just–I don’t even have words for how excited I am to wake up at 3am with Ryan hovering above my face holding the spirit box.”

“You, uh, you don’t sound very excited,” Ryan says, equally drily.

“Oh, don’t I?” Shane says. “Wow, I wonder why that could be!”

Ryan ignores him. He’s getting better and better at that. “Now before, we’ve stayed in haunted places but only for one night at the most. Here, we’ve got a much longer time frame for the ghosts to get more comfortable around us, and I really think we’re going to see a lot of interesting things here.”

“But not,” Shane says, “at 3am. Please, for the love of God, no spirit boxes at 3am.”

Ryan doesn’t even bother looking at the camera; he turns to the side and grins directly at Shane, incandescent and amused. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he tells him, gleeful, and–

Great.

Shane rolls his eyes.

Ryan ignores him. “Now,” he begins, pulling out the the packet of research he’d printed out from a combination of Wikipedia, TripAdvisor, and the Baltimore Sun, “the tragic history of the Wilhelm house begins in 1879, when a young woman named Adelia Wilhelm claimed she could communicate with the spirits of deceased loved ones…”

 

* * *

  

They’d clicked right away, at least on camera. They’d had just the right combination of humor and tension that made for great YouTube content. But their off-camera friendship had been slower; they’d never _not_ gotten along, to be sure, but it had taken a few months for their on-camera camaraderie to develop into more than just a polite working relationship. But the more time they’d spent together the more they’d become real, actual, real life friends, and by now they’re basically inseparable.

Shane knows Ryan, is what he’s saying. And he has a pretty good sense of when Ryan is and isn’t kidding, so when Ryan honest-to-God _does_ show up in his bedroom at 3am, making the unholy screeching-static sounds characteristic of a spirit box, he really and truly had not seen it coming.

“Mblargh,” he says, more or less, because he’s pretty much useless for at least an hour after he wakes up. “Ryan, what–”

“Move over,” Ryan says, voice shaking, the spirit box still crackling away and almost obscuring his words, “Shane, I–I need–”

“Snerg,” Shane says, eloquently, but he moves over.

Ryan must switch the spirit box off then, because the static cuts out suddenly, thank Christ, and then Ryan is pulling back Shane’s stack of quilts and sliding into bed with him. It’s a double bed, so there’s a good foot and a half between them still, but the mattress shifts and squeaks under Ryan’s weight and the shock of the cold night air jolts Shane into something approaching awakeness and awareness.

“What’s happening?” Shane asks.

They’re friends now, _real_ friends, but they are not the kind of friends who share a bed.

“I don’t trust this house,” Ryan says. “Something is really, really wrong here.”

Shane rolls over, turns his back on Ryan, tugging the stack of quilts back over his shoulder, a wave of annoyance surging through his body with inexplicable force.

“Is that it?” he snaps. “Ryan, ghosts aren’t–”

“Real,” Ryan finishes. “I know you think that, but–but something happened, Shane.”

“Tell me about it.”

“In the morning,” Ryan says. “I know you’ll call me crazy, and maybe you’re right, but I know what I saw, and I just–I just can’t be alone right now.”

Shane closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, and sinks deeper into the worn-out mattress, flattening himself out, stretching his legs out until his feet hang over the end of the bed. “Okay,” he says, voice muffled in his pillow, because what else is he going to say? “Okay. Go to sleep now.”

The last thing he hears before he drifts off is the spirit box, volume turned down as low as it goes, crackling softly back to life.

 

* * *

 

Shane wakes up to the first gray tendrils of pre-dawn light creeping through the window of his room and falling across his face. The first thing he notices is that somewhere underneath his pillow, his phone is going off, the alarm buzzing dully even beneath the bulk of the pillow. The second thing he notices is that Ryan is plastered against his back, their legs tangled together, one arm wrapped around his chest.

He fumbles for his phone, still mostly asleep, and hits snooze. He can’t so much hear Ryan’s breathing as he can feel it, the air hot on the back of his neck, his chest rising and falling steadily.

He thinks about turning around, about looking into Ryan’s eyes and asking him about last night; he thinks about asking him what had happened, what had driven him in here, what had possessed him to climb into Shane’s bed. He thinks about turning around and not asking about any of those things, of just rolling over and rolling into him and kissing him and– _what_?

But he doesn’t, and then his phone is going off again and he’s fumbling for the snooze again and this time Ryan is gone.

The bed is ice-cold without him, and Shane gives up on getting any more sleep and wanders downstairs to make some coffee, the stairs creaking loudly beneath his bare feet.

He’s located some Folgers in the freezer that has a “For Guests” sticker on it and he’s pouring water into the coffeemaker when the front door slams and Ryan walks into the kitchen, face flushed from the cold outside, dripping sweat and breathing heavily.

“Morning,” Shane says.

“Morning,” Ryan echoes, and pours himself a glass of water.

Shane blinks at him. “Did you go for a run?”

“Yeah,” Ryan pants, “six miles,” and wait, what?

“No way, man,” says Shane, “I’m not stupid. You’re fast, but no way are you that fast.”

Ryan frowns at him. “Don’t be a dick, man,” he says. “You know I’ve been training for that half marathon.”

Shane does know, because Ryan is terrible and talks about it all the time and straight up has _abs_ for some inscrutable reason. But–

“I know, I know,” Shane says, “you’re in great shape, man. But you’re not a cheetah. No way did you just do six miles in ten minutes.”

Ryan rolls his eyes at him. “Yeah, no, of course not,” he says. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up like an hour ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Shane says. “You were literally just upstairs.”

Ryan laughs. “I definitely was not, dude. I was tossing and turning all night long because the bed in my room is so uncomfortable, so I eventually just gave up and got up early.”

A chill runs down Shane’s back then, icy and horrible, because–

“Well, if it wasn’t you,” Shane says, “then who was in my bed last night?”

Ryan stares at him. “What?”

“Last night,” Shane says. “At like 3am. You showed up holding that fucking spirit box and then climbed into bed with me.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Ryan tells him.

“You’re fucking with me,” Shane says bluntly, because he _is._ He _has_ to be.

“I’m not, dude,” Ryan says, “I swear I’m not. Would I do something like that to you?”

“Yes,” Shane says immediately.

“No,” Ryan corrects him, “ _You_ would do something like that to _me_ , because you’re an asshole. This isn’t my style at all.”

He’s actually totally right, which Shane hates.

“Maybe I was–lucid dreaming,” Shane says.

“That doesn’t really sound like a lucid dream,” Ryan says carefully.

“Well, what’s the alternative?” Shane says in frustration. “That a–a ghost disguised as you _cuddled_ me in my sleep? I don’t think so.”

And with that, he flips the coffeemaker on and storms upstairs to shower.

 

* * *

 

Shane tries to sleep the next night, he really does. He’d been so tired earlier, while filming their episode at the Edgar Allan Poe house, that he’d felt like he’d probably fall asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. But even though he’s exhausted beyond belief, his brain won’t stop whirring and he just can’t seem to manage to drift off.

He plays about 15 rounds of Candy Crush and listens to half an episode of _This American Life_ –fine, Shane finds NPR incredibly dull, sue him–and then it’s 3 in the morning and he hears a noise.

It’s almost but not quite like a rustling right outside his door, and then the floorboards are creaking as if someone is stepping right on them.

Shane doesn’t even hesitate in getting out of bed and going to investigate, pausing only to grab a hoodie. There’s nothing in the hallway outside his room; faintly, down the hall, he can hear Ryan snoring, but no mysterious rustling.

Except then there is–it sounds someone is heading down the stairs, but Shane can’t see anything in the gloom, and he didn’t bother grabbing his phone for a flashlight.

He follows anyway; the rustling goes down the stairs and through the kitchen and he still can’t see anything and then he’s in the library. He flips the light switch as he walks in but it just clicks futilely; the overhead fixture stays resolutely off.

The far corner of the room rustles, the loudest it’s been yet, and Shane doesn’t care anymore, he is getting to the bottom of this. He steps forward, and his heart is pounding in his chest even though he’s _sure_ it’s a mouse or a bird or something else mundane and obvious.

The corner is empty, when he reaches it, and Shane almost groans out loud in frustration and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he’s swinging around, startled, only to see Ryan standing behind him.

“Hey,” Ryan says.

Shane laughs in relief. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Ryan just smiles at him and steps forward. There’s a look in his eyes that’s—intense, focused, calculating, almost. It makes a cold shiver run up Shane’s back, it makes his palms go sweaty, it makes—

“Ryan,” Shane says, his voice soft in the late-night stillness, “what are you doing?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything. He just puts one hand on Shane’s wrist and one hand on the side of his neck and then he’s up on his tiptoes, leaning up and into Shane and they’re kissing.

Ryan’s hands are ice-cold on his neck, but his mouth is hot on Shane’s; Shane doesn’t understand what’s happening but before he can think he’s kissing Ryan back, firmly, almost desperately. He bends down, to make the angle better for both of them, and then Ryan is pushing him backward until his head cracks against the bookshelf, deepening the kiss until Shane can barely breathe. His head is swimming and his knees are going weak and then Ryan’s hand is clenching almost painfully tightly around his wrist and ducking his head down to nip once, twice, three times at Shane’s neck.

“Ryan,” Shane says, “what–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan says, and then kisses him again, biting Shane’s lower lip so hard that both their mouths fill with blood. Shane can’t stifle a moan, shockingly loud in the hushed library, and Ryan squeezes his wrist so tightly Shane’s eyes water, and then he’s gone.

Shane doesn’t see him leave, but honestly, he wasn’t really paying attention.

 

* * *

 

They’re back in the library the next day, hunting for ghosts.

Shane is pretty convinced that they’re not going to find any, but the spirit box is clicking away anyway.

“Speak to us, Adelia,” Ryan intones. “Tell us what really happened to you.”

The spirit box, unsurprisingly, says nothing.

“Oh my God,” Ryan breathes, terrified. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” Shane says honestly.

“‘Demon,’” Ryan says. “The–Adelia just said ‘demon.”

Shane just rolls his eyes. “Oh, Adelia,” he calls out sarcastically, “did you get possessed?”

“‘Yes,’” Ryan says, “the spirit box just said ‘yes!’”

“I really worry about you sometimes,” Shane says, and then the spirit box blessedly, mercifully, shuts off.

Ryan looks really and truly terrified, which means Shane knows that it’s time for him to intervene.

“Come on, Ryan,” he says, making a big show of being nonchalant, “it seems like there’s a demon in this room right now, or possibly a draft because of the fact that this house is like 150 years old. You better toss me some holy water, or maybe a scarf.”

Ryan laughs, and it’s shaky but at least he’s laughing, and tosses the cheap metal cross necklace he insists on wearing under his t-shirt across the room. Shane catches it, and then has to drop it immediately because it is, somehow, white-hot and sizzling.

“What the _fuck_ , dude,” he hisses, clutching at his rapidly blistering hand. “Why is it _hot_?”

Ryan is staring at him in undisguised horror. “It isn’t.”

Shane doesn’t understand, and then all of a sudden–he does.

“Ryan, come on,” he says, “you don’t think I’m a fucking _demon_ , do you?”

Ryan just shakes his head, silent, and he looks terrified in a way that Shane just hates.

“Come on,” he says, “don’t be ridiculous,” and he tries to put a comforting hand on Ryan’s shoulder, but Ryan shies away from his touch.

“Don’t,” Ryan says, his voice coming out at least an octave higher than usual, “don’t you _dare_ touch me,” and then Shane’s vision blacks out and he can feel himself crumpling to the floor and–

_Oh._

 

* * *

 

Shane had–well, he hadn’t _really_ believed that anything supernatural was happening in the Wilhelm house, because he doesn’t believe in ghosts. He _doesn’t_.

But insofar as he had felt, deep in the pit of his stomach, that something had actually been going on, he’d assumed it was with Ryan. Ryan was the one who’d been hovering in strange places, kissing him and slipping into his bed and then pretending nothing had ever happened.

But it wasn’t. The demon wasn’t in Ryan and it wasn’t in the air or the floorboards or the library. It had been inside him all along.

He’d told Ryan earlier that he’d been lucid dreaming, but he hadn’t really believed it. This, right now, must actually be a lucid dream, because he’s sitting in the library but instead of his jeans he’s wearing a floor-length ruffled floral patterned dress with–God, are these _hoopskirts?_

He’s wearing hoopskirts and Ryan, sitting across from him, is wearing a full suit with what looks like a top hat.  

And it looks like Ryan, to be sure, but there’s something _off_ about his eyes. They’re not red, or solid black, or glowing; they just look like they’re covered in a thin film of tinted glass.

“So,” Shane says, “you’re the demon.”

The thing that looks like Ryan but isn't shrugs. “Guilty as charged.”

“And you’ve been possessing me this whole time,” Shane says flatly.

“Well… yes and no,” the demon says. “I’m certainly possessing you _now_. And I’ve certainly been messing with you for a few days. But you need a formal agreement to cement a possession; something symbolic and yet real.”

“I did _not_ agree to this,” Shane spits.

The demon just raises an eyebrow at him. “Sealed with a kiss,” he says idly, and–

Well.

He’s got Shane there.

“So what’s your game plan, here?” Shane asks. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Probably not,” the demon says.

“And Ryan?” Shane asks. “Are you going to kill Ryan?”

“Oh, definitely not,” the demon says, and he looks almost offended at the mere suggestion. “No, you have my word that I won’t so much as touch a hair on his delicious, delicious head.”

“Ugh,” Shane says, “don’t be gross.”

The demon laughs. “You’re not exactly in a position to be giving orders here, Shane Madej. But I just want you to know that this doesn’t have to be as unpleasant as you seem to think it’s going to be.

“I’m a parasite by nature, you see, but this doesn’t have to hurt. It can be–symbiotic, if you will. I borrow your body, and in return I can arrange for certain … desires, let’s say. I think you’ll really enjoy this, honestly.”

“And what, exactly, do I get out of it?” Shane demands.

The demon laughs. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” he says, in Ryan’s smug little voice, and then Shane wakes up.

 

* * *

 

Shane’s eyes flicker open again but it’s not himself doing it, he can tell right away. He feels utterly disconnected from his body; he feels like he’s in the passenger seat of his own existence and it’s hands-down the worst thing he’s ever experienced.

 _So much for ‘not unpleasant,’_ he thinks furiously at the demonic presence sharing his mind, and feels a flickering, acidic sensation of laughter in return.

 _Wait and see_ , the demon tells him, and Shane–well, he doesn’t have any other options than that, does he?

“So this is how it’s going to be, huh,” and it’s his mouth and his voice saying it but the words aren’t his at all.

Shane gets to his feet and Ryan is backing away from him, and Shane can _hear_ his heart beating fastfastfast and okay, that’s new.

“Get away from me, demon,” Ryan says, voice trembling. “Begone!”

Shane laughs, and it’s his laugh but it’s also the nasty acidic laugh he heard a few seconds ago. “That’s not going to work, Ryan,” he says, and then he’s pushing Ryan against the wall and leaning down over him, using every inch of his height for as much as it’s worth, and Ryan swallows, hard.

“I can feel things, you know,” the demon says, in Shane’s voice. “I can feel the hot swirling mess of emotions that is both of you _idiots_ basically all the time, probably better than you yourselves can. You just walked in here, completely oblivious, like you can’t come into _my domain_ with all that _raw desire_ and expect me not to notice.”

Ryan tries to edge his way out from where he’s trapped against the wall, but the demon just rolls Shane’s eyes and then grabs first one wrist and then the other, pinning them above Ryan’s head.

“Worth a try, I suppose,” the demon says, “but no. You’re not getting out of this so easily.”

Ryan swallows again, and then Shane notices that–wait, _what_ –his cheeks are steadily flushing pink and his pupils are blown huge and–is he _seriously–_

“Oh,” the demon says, feigning surprise, “you’re _into_ this.”

Apparently, yes.

“Stop,” Ryan says, his voice rough, “just–stop.”

“I’ll stop right this second, if you really want me to,” the demon says. “All you have to do is ask.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, then,” the demon says, “that’s what I thought,” and he caresses the side of Ryan’s face, and the movement is gentle but the overall vibe is deeply unsettling.

“This isn’t you, Shane,” Ryan says, voice rough.

“No,” the demon agrees, “but you can pretend it is.” And then Shane’s body is stepping backwards, lifting his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender, tilting his head to the side as if to say, “come do what you want.”

Shane knows he should probably be significantly more bothered by this turn of events, but he’s really just mostly curious about where this is going to go.

“He won’t remember a thing, you know,” the demon purrs, and–Shane didn’t know his own voice could even sound like that, low and rumbling and seductive. “He’ll never know.”

 _Is that true?_ Shane thinks at the demon, hotly furious.

 _Not even a little,_ the demon thinks back, and yeah, Shane probably should have seen that one coming.

But what he doesn’t see coming is this: Ryan’s muttering to himself, _“fuck it,”_ and his hands coming up to gently cradle the sides of Shane’s face, to pull him down to Ryan’s level, to kiss him gently and sweetly like they’re in a Disney movie.

It’s … well.

 _He kisses better than you did_ , the demon thinks at him.

 _Oh, fuck off_ , Shane thinks back, and the demon actually … kind of does. He’s still controlling Shane’s body, but his snarky little voice goes silent in Shane’s mind and all Shane has to think about is the sensation of Ryan’s mouth on his mouth and Ryan’s hands on his face and Ryan’s body, flush with his from chest to knee.

Kissing someone without control of his own movements is impossibly bizarre. He’d never realized before exactly how much of kissing was his instincts taking over; he’s never been so impossibly aware of every infinitesimal movement of his head and his lips and his tongue before, but with the demon at the wheel he just finds his mouth moving against Ryan’s without any indication of what’s going to happen next. It’s terrible, but it’s also–well, _incredibly_ hot, to be so tuned-in to exactly what’s happening at every given moment and yet so simultaneously out of control.

 _Thanks,_ Shane thinks begrudgingly at the demon, _I see what you meant now._

 _Oh, just you wait,_ the demon says back, and that’s when Ryan drops to his knees.

Shane is flabbergasted for a moment, unable to believe that this is actually happening. _God,_ he thinks to himself, _not like this,_ before he realizes that this—well— _isn’t_ actually happening.

Ryan is on his knees right in front of him, sure, but he’s not doing anything that could be considered remotely sexual. He’s just kind of fiddling with something in his pocket and muttering wildly to himself, which makes absolutely no sense until Shane realizes suddenly that he’s _praying_.

And then Ryan is pulling something out of his pocket and pressing yet another cross to Shane’s thigh, and his quietly muttered prayer is turning to shouting in Latin.

 _Oh, damn,_ the demon says, annoyed, and then the pain hits Shane like a rogue semi-truck and he passes out again.

 

* * *

 

Shane is lucid dreaming again, but this time he’s wearing his own clothes and the demon sitting across from him isn’t wearing Ryan’s body, but is instead in a guise Shane recognizes from the painting hanging in the foyer as Adelia Wilhelm.

“So,” the demon says, and her voice is surprising soft and high, for all the horrors Shane knows she can inflict. “Do we have a deal?”

Shane can’t hold back a loud snort. “Seriously? You think I would fucking do that? For what, for–a few kisses that I didn’t even really get to take part in? How desperate do you think I fucking _am_?”

“I mean, pretty desperate,” the demon says, rolling her eyes, “but no, of course not. I’m not stupid. You wouldn’t do all this for Ryan, but you _would_ do all this _for Ryan_.”

Shane stares at her, confused. “What?”

“Sealed with a kiss,” she says wryly, and Shane realizes with a jolt what she’s just done.

She’s trapped him. She’s trapped them both.

“Look,” she sighs, “I know I’m evil and all that, but I don’t _actually_ want to hurt you or Ryan. I’m just bored here. I’ve been trapped in this house since 1882 and I’m going stir crazy. I’m not talking about some crazy deal where I take your immortal soul and eat your family or anything like that. I’m talking about a deal where we split your body 50/50 and I do no evil and I stay out of your way most of the time, and you let me watch some of these ‘Net Flicks’ I hear so much about.”

Shane really can’t resist the urge to drop his head into his hands. “Netflix? You’re doing this for Netflix?”

“So are you taking the deal or not?”

Shane groans. “80/20, and you swear in—in demon blood or whatever you do that you won’t _ever_ hurt Ryan.”

“70/30, and that’s my final offer,” the demon says. “Take it or leave it. And let me remind you that if you leave it, I _will_ be going after your little friend instead.”

“Ugh,” Shane says, “fuck off–wait, no–yes. I’m taking it.”

“Good choice,” she says primly, and then pulls a huge silver knife out of somewhere in the folds of her skirt and stabs herself in the stomach.

Shane stares at her in shock, as thick black blood seeps through the fabric of her dress.

“Damn,” she says, “that _hurts_ ,” and then she stabs him too.

“What the fuck,” Shane says, gasping through the pain. “Seriously, _what_ the _fuck_?”

“Kisses aren’t strong enough for this kind of agreement,” she says flatly. “For something that matters this much, you need blood.”

“God,” Shane says, “ _God–_ ”

 

* * *

 

He’s sprawled across his bed upstairs, which is interesting, because he has no idea how he got here. Did Ryan carry him up here? Is that even possible?

“How–” he starts to say, and then Ryan, sitting on the edge of his bed, cuts him off.

“Thank God you’re awake,” he says all in a rush. “I was so worried about you–you just dropped like a stone, and I worried I’d killed you because you weren’t breathing, and then you just started screaming bloody murder and then–”

“How did I get here?” Shane asks.

“You walked,” Ryan says. “With your eyes still closed. It was both impressive and horrifying.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Shane mutters, and then pushes himself up into a sitting position.

His stomach feels totally fine, but he still pulls the fabric of his shirt up to check, to make sure the skin there is unblemished and whole.

“What are you doing?” Ryan asks curiously, but Shane ignores him.

“Thanks for the sexorcism,” he says. “I really needed that.”

“The–the sexorcism?” Ryan repeats, confused, and then he gets it. “Ugh, dude, gross–”

Shane laughs.

“Well, good news,” Ryan says, “because after that little nightmare I’m never spending another second without at least four crosses on my person at all times.”

Shane winces. “Oh, yeah, well actually … about that … I may have to request you maybe not do that?”

“What?” Ryan says, confused. “Shane, I literally just saved your life.”

“Well, you … mostly saved it,” Shane admits sheepishly. “The demon and I may have had to … let’s say … come to an arrangement."

Ryan stares at him, horrified. “Shane,” he says, “tell me you didn’t. Please, for the love of all that is holy, please tell me you did _not_ make a deal with the devil.”

Shane shrugs at him. “Well, I made a deal with _a_ devil. I wouldn’t call her _the_ devil.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Ryan says.

Shane just grins at him. “It’ll be fine,” he says, “I promise.”

Ryan looks like he’s going to combust, but Shane just puts one hand on his shoulder and leans in, kissing him softly and sweetly and swallowing his protests all at once.

“I wanted to do that as me,” Shane says quietly, pulling back. “I–it wasn’t me, before, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

Ryan is blushing furiously. “I am sorry about that,” he says. “It wasn’t right, I just–”

“It’s okay,” Shane says. “I’m sorry too. For just–well, everything.”

“Yeah!” Ryan says suddenly. “You know what, you do owe me an apology, because guess fucking what, Shane–”

“Oh, no–”

“I don’t want to say I told you so, but–”

“Ryan, please–”

“ _Ghosts are real!”_

Inside his mind, the demon stirs.

 _This is going to be fun_ , she thinks at him, smug, and the thing is–

Shane is pretty sure she’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'Dubious Consent' tag refers to a scene where one character kisses another while possessed by a demon and has no bodily autonomy. Both characters are aware of what's going on, and both characters are 'into it,' if you will.


End file.
